


Down

by sister_wolf



Series: Devil's Road [6]
Category: Hard Core Logo (1996), Lone Hero (2002), due South
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-03-14
Updated: 2004-03-14
Packaged: 2017-10-12 09:40:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/123508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sister_wolf/pseuds/sister_wolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Up close, the resemblance is remarkable-- the same facial shape, same eyes, same nose.  But it's not Ray-- the way he stands, the way he talks, is different.  Unlike Ray, this man's face is marked by time, or perhaps pain, dark shadows under his eyes, lines of tension next to his mouth.  But he's close enough in appearance that he could be Ray's brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Down

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place after _Hard Core Logo_ and includes spoilers for the end of the movie. Knowledge of _Lone Hero_ is definitely not necessary to read this; those of you who do remember the movie will notice that I've changed canon in a few significant places. Huge thanks to my awesome betas, Brooklinegirl, Heuradys, and Justacat.
> 
> IMPORTANT WARNING: This series is unfinished and will never be finished. It also ends at a particularly bad point in the plot. I really do apologize for that.

His bags are packed and sitting by the door. The bulk of his luggage (mainly boxes of books) has already been sent on ahead. The apartment looks cold and bare now, but then again, that's really not much of a change.

The phone rings, startling Diefenbaker awake. Fraser crosses the room in long strides, wondering why someone's calling so late. Hopefully, not a last-minute change in plans. He's been fighting off a superstitious fear that now he's made all the arrangements, someone at Headquarters will decide to retract their offer. It's a generous offer, after all, a position that will revive his essentially moribund career. He doesn't care about his "career trajectory," never has, but there are members of the old guard who would rather see him dead than in a position of influence within the RCMP. He's not sure how Inspector Thatcher pulled the strings to arrange his new position-- and he suspects that he's really better off not knowing.

"Corporal Benton Fraser speaking."

Silence on the other end of the line for a few seconds, with the faint hissing static of a long-distance call. "Uh. Hi, Frase. Jeez, I hope I didn't wake you up."

He hasn't heard a word from Ray in two months. For Ray to be calling this late-- there must be something wrong. Maybe a case they worked on together. "Ray?"

"Yeah. Listen, I'm sorry for waking you up." Ray's voice is oddly raspy, as if he's been yelling, perhaps at a suspect or just out of sheer frustration.

"I wasn't asleep. Is something wrong, Ray?" Fraser flips through a mental file cabinet of their recent cases. Maybe the Pennington case, or Allied Salvage... wasn't there a cousin still at large in the Giordano case?

"No, nothing important."

"I see." Fraser crosses his arms, frowning. Ray is clearly lying.

"Yeah, there's something. It's nothing really. I just wanted to see if you had some advice."

"On a case?"

"Um. No." There's a faint tapping noise in the background. He can picture Ray fidgeting, playing with an empty coffee cup or a paperweight. "It's, um, it's personal."

Not a case, then. "I'd be happy to listen, Ray. It's what one does for a friend, after all."

Ray starts babbling about the reasons why he hasn't called. Fraser feels a little vindicated-- Ray obviously knows that he should have kept in touch better-- but he's still annoyed.

"I see. What's wrong, Ray?" he asks, once Ray appears to have run out of steam.

"I, um. Okay. What would you do if you knew someone had done something awful, something unforgivable, but you also knew he wasn't exactly himself at the time?"

"Was it something illegal?" Good lord, has Ray been following his ex-wife again? He thought Ray had finally gotten over Stella, but it's possible that he regressed.

"Um, don't worry about the legal aspect of the thing. That's not the problem."

"Very well." At least Stella hasn't filed for a restraining order. In the past, she always seemed to view Ray's obsession as irritating, but flattering, so perhaps the situation isn't completely unsalvageable. "When you say he wasn't exactly himself at the time, do you mean he was under the influence of drugs or alcohol, or that he was mentally or emotionally unstable?"

"More of a mental thing. See, he was undercover, and he got caught, and tortured, I guess, and he ended up joining the people he was supposed to be spying on, and doing bad stuff for them."

"So you're saying he experienced traumatic bonding, also known as Stockholm Syndrome?" Fraser's mouth is continuing on without most of his brain attached. Oh, god-- Ray, Ray Vecchio, his friend and partner-- _caught and tortured_.

"Uh, yeah. I guess."

"Legally speaking, Stockholm Syndrome has never been used successfully as a defense--" _Tortured_. He knew Ray seemed different after he returned from Las Vegas, harder, colder, but he never imagined...

"Fraser! Do not worry about the legal stuff. That's not what I'm asking. What I need to know is-- can you forgive someone for something he did when he was all fucked up by the Stockholm Syndrome stuff?"

"Do I know this person?" _Please, please, let it not be Ray..._

"No-- no, it's not Vecchio. It's someone you don't know."

Fraser closes his eyes in relief. Not Ray. Who, then? "Are you personally involved with this person?"

There's a long pause. Has Ray found a new relationship? Found someone while Fraser was still delaying, still paralyzed by fear? "The reason I'm asking is that-- Ray, this person could be emotionally unstable, and quite possibly a danger to himself and others."

"No, he's not-- he's not dangerous. He's... kind of fucked up, but not dangerous." There's a note in Ray's voice that Fraser recognizes-- it's the way that Ray used to talk about Stella, rough but soft at the same time. A hint of the tenderness hiding under his gruff exterior.

He's found someone else.

Fraser stumbles through the rest of the conversation, hopefully making a modicum of sense, hangs the phone up, and slides down the wall to sit on the floor, his head in his hands. Ray has found someone else, and Fraser should be happy for him. Should be...

He's not sure what he expected-- that he'd be able to walk back into Ray's life at the point he left it, take up his position as Ray's partner/friend/constant companion as if he hadn't sent Ray back to Chicago, alone? (And how much that memory stings now-- the awkward hug, Ray's strained and unhappy face, and Fraser's utter cowardice-- that when Ray said he loved him, Fraser had smiled and said he loved him too, as if it had been a simple pleasantry between friends, not the defining truth of his heart.)

He must have known things wouldn't be that simple, that he can't simply walk back into Ray's life, otherwise he'd have let Ray know as soon as the confirmation of his new position came through from Headquarters. He's been waiting for the right moment, but somehow it never came. Just like he's been waiting for the right moment to finally open up and admit that what he wants is more than friendship, more than simple partnership... And apparently, he's waited too long, because Ray has already moved on.

There's an inquiring whine and a cold nose pushing against his hand. Fraser scrubs a hand across his face and gives Dief a comforting thump on the side. "Yes, we're still going to Chicago." Dief grumbles. "I'm sure Ray hasn't forgotten about you-- Dief, he has a lot on his mind, otherwise I'm sure he would have asked about you." Dief whines again and butts his head against Fraser.

"I don't know if we'll be a pack again. Ray may not want us anymore."

A sharp bark.

"He's an independent creature, after all. I can't coerce him into--"

Dief curls his lip and turns away, lying down and licking himself pointedly.

"There's no need to be rude. Human mating rituals are much more complicated than canine ones. I can't simply walk up to him and-- Diefenbaker! You're not even listening to me."

Fraser sighs.

* * *

His bags are packed and sitting by the door. All his worldly belongings fit into two duffle bags and a guitar case. The apartment looks cold and bare now, but then again, that's really not much of a change.

The phone rings, startling Billy out of his exhausted daze. He picks it up automatically, wondering why the hell someone's calling so late. If it's another last-minute change in plans he's going to have to kill someone.

"Yeah?"

"Billy, it's Cate. Hey, I wanted to let you know that Trevor decided to fly out day after tomorrow, so you're going to be on your own for the flight."

"Thanks, mom. I'll try not to get lost." This is a change in plans he can live with-- not having to put up with Trevor's whining for an entire four-hour plane trip.

"Fuck _off_ , Tallent." He can hear the smile in her voice.

"Yeah, yeah. Still got a limo waiting for me, or don't I rate one without Mr. Fantastic along?" Billy grins, picking up a pack off the coffee table and tapping out a cigarette.

"Well, we were thinking about sending you by bus... yes, of course you still get a limo. Brat."

"You know you love me."

"If only my leaving Gina for you wouldn't break up the band..." she says, trying to sound wistful.

"We'd be like the grunge Fleetwood Mac. Wait, that's right, you're too young to remember them." It's easy to banter with Cate-- she doesn't demand anything he can't give. Not like Joe. Nothing, nothing is ever like it was with Joe.

She laughs. "You're so full of shit, Billy. Anyway, we'll see you in Chicago. You're gonna freak out when you see this house. It's got something like eight bedrooms, two dining rooms, a fucking _parlor_ , and actual servant quarters in the attic. It's wild."

Billy pitches his voice higher and louder, with his best attempt at a Californian drawl. "Why do we have to spend two months in Chicago in the ass-end of winter in some stupid old house? It's gonna be cold and boring! And I'll miss my army of groupies!"

Cate sighs loudly. "Because Gina says so, _Trevor_. Whiny asshole."

Billy snickers. "Can't we kick him out and get a bassist who doesn't suck?"

"Nah, all the little girls think he's soooooo hot."

"I thought all our girl fans were lesbians."

"Shh, it's a secret. Anyhow, I'll see you tomorrow. Try not to get lost."

"Yes, mom."

Grinning, he puts down the phone. Cate's a good kid, always trying to keep the peace in the band. Like Johnny, but without the hallucinations.

"Your dykes are pretty hot, Billiam. I think you should fuck both of 'em."

"Shit!" Billy jumps, startled. "Goddammit, Joe, stop sneaking up on me like that."

Joe shrugs. He's slightly translucent today-- the living room is hazily visible through his black sweater. "I'm dead. What am I supposed to do, knock?"

"Fuck." Billy sprawls out on the threadbare sofa, glaring at Joe. "I swear, I'm gonna find someone to exorcise you one of these days."

"Uh-huh." Joe sounds unconvinced. "Then who would you have to talk to at three in the morning, Billy? Yourself? Don't you know only crazy people talk to themselves?"

"As opposed to sane people, who talk to ghosts?"

"Exactly! Give the man a prize." Joe wanders over to the duffle bags and kicks at them with an insubstantial combat boot. "Why the fuck are you going to Chicago, anyway?"

"Gina wants to record the next album there. She says the house has a really good atmosphere, whatever the hell that means."

"'Gina wants to record there,'" Joe repeats mockingly. "Gina says this, Gina says that. You're not even getting any from her and you're pussywhipped."

"You're such an asshole, Joe. Why don't you go haunt somebody who gives a shit?"

"You love it."

"You just keep telling yourself that." Billy lights another cigarette, taking a deep drag.

"Oh, man. Blow some of that shit my way." Looking hungry, Joe leans over the sofa.

"Freak." He takes another drag and blows it in Joe's face. Joe's eyes close in ecstasy. "I can't believe you get high off secondhand smoke."

"It'd be even better if you'd smoke something interesting once in a while-- grass, dope, c'mon, Billy, you're the only way I have any fun anymore." Joe's edges are looking kind of fuzzy, like there's smoke trapped inside his outline.

"You're not supposed to be having fun, Joe. You're dead, remember? Film crew, big fight, you blew a fucking hole in your skull... Joe, goddammit-- you're not even listening to me, are you?."

Billy sighs.

* * *

More hours than he'd care to contemplate, stuck inside the recycled air of an airplane, wedged into seats that are clearly not designed for anyone of above average height, listening to the inane, droning conversations of his seatmates, and Fraser is almost at the end of his rope. All he wants to do is collect his bags, find a taxi, and go home-- or, rather, to a hotel. He'll have to come back to the airport tomorrow to pick up Diefenbaker, who is in temporary quarantine. It's honestly a bit of a relief not to have to deal with him right now-- air travel always leaves Dief in a foul mood.

He's standing in a daze, watching the luggage carousel go round and round, when something beyond the carousel grabs his attention. A familiar shape, tall and lean, topped with spiky blonde hair. He's at three-quarter profile, staring at the next luggage carousel over, but it's clearly Ray Kowalski.

Dodging past the clumps and clusters of weary travelers, Fraser makes his way over to Ray's side. "Ray! It's so good to see you."

The man turns toward Fraser, but instead of the expected pleasure and surprise, the expression that crosses his mobile face is one of confusion and incomprehension. "Uh, sorry, buddy, you've got the wrong guy."

Up close, the resemblance is remarkable-- the same facial shape, same eyes, same nose. But it's not Ray-- the way he stands, the way he talks, is different. Unlike Ray, this man's face is marked by time, or perhaps pain, dark shadows under his eyes, lines of tension next to his mouth. But he's close enough in appearance that he could be Ray's brother.

He's frowning, looking impatient, and Fraser realizes that he's been staring. "I beg your pardon. You simply bear a remarkable resemblance to a friend of mine. Do you have relatives in the area, perhaps of Polish descent?"

"Not that I'm aware of." He chuckles, raspy and soft. "Normally when people I don't know walk up to me in airports, they're looking for an autograph, not a genealogy."

"I'm sorry, I'm being terribly rude." Benton extends his hand. "Benton Fraser, Royal Canadian Mounted Police."

The man shakes his hand, looking bemused. "Billy Tallent. Guitarist." He pauses, seemingly expecting Fraser to recognize him. After a few moments, he shrugs and asks, "So what's a Mountie doing in Chicago?"

"I first came to Chicago on the trail of the--" Fraser begins to launch into his familiar spiel but then stops abruptly-- it's really not germane anymore, after all. "I've returned to Chicago to assist in developing a cross-border law enforcement coordination initiative."

"Sounds complicated. So you were assigned here before?"

"Yes, for four years. I was a liaison with the Consulate here, and in that capacity I worked with the Chicago police department."

"Where're you from originally?"

"Oh, a number of places. My grandparents moved around a lot in the Territories."

"The Territories?" Billy shivers. "Too cold for me. Vancouver, born and bred."

They've been slowly drifting away from the rest of the crowd, towards the wall behind the baggage carousels. No one is paying attention to them, and there's nobody close enough to overhear their quiet conversation anyway. Billy cocks his head and asks, "So the guy you thought I was, Ray, who's he?"

"Ray Kowalski. My former partner."

Sympathy flashes in Billy's eyes. "I know how that is. Even after the bastard's gone, you still think you see him everywhere." Billy glances to the side, scowling fiercely.

"I-- well, I suppose that's true, in a way, although he hasn't been _gone_ , as such, just-- I've been there, in Yellowknife, and he's been here, in Chicago."

"And now you're both here. But he doesn't know that you're here yet, does he?"

"Maybe he does," Fraser retorts, knowing he's being snippy.

"Yeah. I didn't think so. 'Cause if he knew, he'd be here picking you up, right?"

"That's a bit of a jump in logic, considering you don't know either one of us."

"Yeah, you're right, I don't know you. Sorry. Have a nice life." Billy turns to walk away. Not knowing quite why, Fraser reaches out a hand to grasp his arm. He hardly knows Billy, after all, but for some reason, he doesn't want to see him walk away. Maybe it's that startling resemblance to Ray, making him feel like he knows Billy better than he actually does. Or maybe it's just that he's lonely. Almost everyone he knows from his previous posting to Chicago is gone-- Ray Vecchio is in Miami, Inspector Thatcher and Constable Turnbull are in Ottawa-- and Ray Kowalski... well. Ray probably won't have all that much time to spend with Fraser anymore, not if he's dealing with a new relationship.

"I'm sorry," he says quietly when Billy gives him a hard stare.

Billy opens his mouth, looking like he's about to say something cutting, and then pauses for a moment, as if he's listening to something. "Yeah, well, sometimes sorry _is_ good enough, when the person saying it actually _means_ it," he says with a peculiar emphasis, as if aiming the statement at someone. Fraser looks around, but there's no one anywhere near them.

"I do mean it. There was no reason for me to snap at you like that."

"Maybe there was. I was getting pretty personal there. I can be a pushy bast-- I mean, I always push too hard."

"It's a fault that you and I share." Lord knows Ray always complained about Fraser pushing too hard.

"Yeah?" Billy hunches his shoulders and gives Fraser a sideways glance.

"Yeah," Fraser says. "We are both, as you would say, pushy bastards."

Billy chuckles, shaking his head. "No way."

"What?"

"Just-- at first you seemed so, I dunno, Sergeant Preston of the Yukon or something. I didn't think you'd swear at all."

"I swear occasionally," Fraser says, smiling despite himself.

"What, every ten years or so?"

"You forget, I was stationed in Chicago before. As part of my effort to fit in with the local culture, I kept myself on a regular regimen of swearing and using slang every ten to fifteen days." Fraser keeps his face as composed and blank as possible.

Billy gives him an incredulous look. Fraser's mouth twitches. "You-- you're a freak, Ben, you know that?" Billy's grin is incandescent, so much like Ray's familiar grin that it's almost painful to Fraser.

"I've been told that a few times, yes."

"So, uh..." Billy fidgets, suddenly looking more like Ray than ever. "Do you maybe want to catch a meal together?"

"I couldn't possibly impose on your hospitality that way," Fraser demurs, sure that Billy is simply being polite.

"Yeah, well, I'm sure you have plans already anyway." His voice is brusque, but there's an edge to it that Fraser recognizes as disappointment.

With a bit of incredulity, Fraser asks, "Do you really want to have dinner with me?"

"Yeah, I really do. What, is that so hard to imagine?"

For that, Fraser has no answer.

* * *

"What, is that so hard to imagine?" Billy asks, teasing. Ben doesn't smile or laugh, though-- he just frowns, as if he's giving the question serious thought. How a guy this gorgeous and smart could have such low self-esteem, Billy has no idea. Ben really is a freak, but then again, Billy likes freaks.

Ben seems taken aback at the limousine waiting for Billy once they collect their luggage. Billy can sympathize-- it wasn't that long ago that he was going from gig to gig in a broken-down van. Not that long ago at all-- and he shivers at the reminder, glancing over his shoulder to see if Joe's ghost is following him again. He's gone, for now, but Billy's sure he'll be back.

Almost six months since Joe's last performance, immortalized on film. Since Billy woke up the day after Joe's funeral to find Joe's ghost hanging out in his hotel room, just as bitchy, pushy, and charismatic as he'd been when he was alive. As impossible as it is, it's impossible to deny either-- however the bastard managed it, he's here to stay, disappearing only when it suits his whims. In some ways, it's not that different from the way it used to be, having Joe around as a ghost, except that Billy can't take a plane to L.A. to escape him anymore.

"So where's good to eat around here?" Billy asks, once they're comfortably settled in the back of the limousine, Billy sprawled across his seat, Ben sitting primly across from him with his hat on his knees.

"There is a diner that I've always found to have excellent food-- never mind, though, you wouldn't want to go there," Ben adds quickly.

"Why not?"

"Well, it's not terribly fancy-- my former partner always referred to it as a 'greasy spoon,' a rather evocative image, although I've always found the cleanliness of the cutlery to be quite adequate."

"Greasy spoon suits me fine. Where is it?"

Billy settles back into his seat after giving the limo driver the diner's address. He eyes the way that Ben is sitting-- barely moving, as if he's afraid that he'll scuff the pale cream leather of the limo's interior-- and leans forward, dropping his voice confidentially. "Listen, I'm not used to the whole rock star thing yet myself. I'm just a poor kid off the streets of Vancouver, really. I look around me and I wonder where the hell this all came from-- one day I'm living month-to-month in a roach-infested one-room apartment in a bad part of LA, the next day I'm signing contracts for amounts of money that aren't even real to me, they're so big. So yeah, I'm happy going to a diner-- for one thing, probably no one there will recognize me. Okay?"

"Understood." Ben's smile-- crooked teeth, a little lopsided, crinkles forming around his eyes-- makes Billy's long-neglected libido sit up and take notice. He catches himself wondering if Ben's former partner is his former _partner_. The disappointed look on Ben's face after he discovered that Billy wasn't him... yeah, it's possible.

"So tell me about your old partner. The one you thought was me."

"Ray?" Ben looks down at his hat and rubs a thumb across his eyebrow. "Ray is... a fine police officer and a loyal partner. He is brave, quick-witted, stubborn, and selfless. I was proud to call him my partner."

"Uh-huh. So now you've given me his promo blurb, how about telling me what he's really like?"

Ben gives him a sharp, irritated glance. _Yeah, there it is, the real guy under that oh-so-polite exterior,_ Billy thinks, hiding a smile.

"Ray is quite interested in classic automobiles. He has a 1967 GTO, which he and his father restored. He's also an accomplished ballroom dancer and a connoisseur of early 1980's punk music."

"Sure, that's everything he _does_. Now tell me who he is." He's pushing again, but he can't help it. There's something fascinating about Benton Fraser, and Billy wants to know what makes him tick.

"I've told you who he is."

"Tell me something bad about him."

Ben pauses, and for a second Billy is sure he's pushed too far. "He's the most irritating man on earth, sometimes," Ben says slowly.

"Come on. Tell me more."

"He's argumentative. He's possessive. He's needy and insecure. He can't let go of the past. He chases women who treat him like dirt, and ignores those who would treat him with love and respect." His voice is low, intense, angry. The words are coming faster and faster. Billy finds that he's suddenly kneeling on the seat next to Ben, not sure how he got there. "He flirts-- all the time-- and never follows through on it. He knows-- he _must_ know-- how much he means to me, but he treats me like I'm nothing more than a friend, keeping me at arms length except when _he_ needs comfort." He's breathing hard, shaking, his hands balled into fists.

"Shit, Ben, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have pushed you so hard--" he's petting Ben's chest and shoulders, cupping Ben's face between his hands, and before Billy can stop and think about it, he's leaning forward and kissing Ben, feeling Ben's mouth go tense against him and then give, open up and draw Billy into him. He's straddling Ben's legs suddenly, with Ben's arms around him like bands of steel. Billy's hands are tangled in Ben's thick soft hair, angling their mouths together, and Ben's devouring him, kisses full of so much need, kissing him deep, so deep. Ben finally draws away, breathing hard, and Billy rests his head on Ben's shoulder, wondering if he'll shove him away now, or worse, apologize for losing control.

"I'm sorry," Ben finally says.

 _Shit, it's the apology. Getting shoved onto my ass would hurt less._ "No big deal." Billy tries to pull away, but Ben holds onto him.

"I'm not sorry for kissing you."

"Yeah?" Billy hunches his shoulders, looking away.

"I'm sorry that I was thinking about Ray when I was kissing you. That isn't fair to you."

"Yeah, well, life isn't fair."

"No, it isn't fair. Which means that we should try even harder to be fair in our dealings with one another."

Billy gives him a skeptical look-- who the hell thinks like that?-- but Ben just gazes back at him calmly. Apparently, he means it. He really is that idealistic, and what the hell is Billy doing here, getting his shit all over someone this pure?

"Okay, point taken. You want to let me go now?"

"Wait," Ben says, holding onto his waist. "I... I have a question for you."

"Go on." Billy relaxes, with an effort. Ben's thighs are warm and muscular, and Billy's finding it increasingly hard to keep his mind out of the gutter. _Pure thoughts. Puuuuuuure thoughts. Right._

Ben clears his throat. After a few false starts, he begins slowly, "Please understand that I am not asking this carelessly or without due consideration. I realize that we barely know each other, but I feel as though we've made a connection, and the level of understanding between us seems to be much greater than the short time that we've known each other would normally justify. I guess what I'm attempting to say, in my typical overly verbose way, is that I would very much like to... err, that is..."

Billy cocks his head to the side. "Are you trying to say that you want to have sex with me?"

* * *

"I... ah... yes." Woefully aware that he's blushing bright red, Fraser feels as if he's a fumbling teenager again, asking Mark if he'd like to play hockey together sometime. The advantage of those youthful memories over this moment is that Mark had been equally uncertain and naïve. Billy, though, is an experienced, sophisticated man (and apparently a famous musician), while Fraser (occasional short-term liaisons aside) still feels almost as inexperienced as he did during those long-ago groping sessions with Mark behind the practice shed.

Billy gazes at him for a few minutes, his eyes unreadable. Despite his physical resemblance to Ray, he's much harder to read; Ray expresses his emotions with his whole body, but Billy's body language is muted, his movements premeditated. Fraser is just at the point of wishing for a fissure in the earth to open and swallow him up, when Billy nods once and says, "Yes."

"What?" He never really expected Billy to say yes. Of course, he didn't actually think it through at all, hasn't been thinking anything through today. It feels like he's been off-balance since the phone call from Ray last night, since he discovered that all his cowardice, all his _waiting for the right moment,_ has cost him his chance. If he'd ever opened up to Ray-- if he'd ever lost it like he did with Billy just a few minutes ago-- maybe things would have turned out differently. Maybe he'd be having this conversation with Ray... _good lord_ , did he really just proposition Billy? Has he finally lost all of his marbles?

"Yes, I will have sex with you. Don't look so surprised, Ben, it's not like you're hard on the eyes." Billy winks, rubbing against him suggestively.

"I'm sorry, I didn't realize I was still holding onto you--" Fraser attempts to remove Billy from his lap, babbling apologies, but Billy hangs on like a limpet.

"Ben! Fuck, calm down." Fraser forcibly calms himself, keeping his mouth shut through an act of pure will. Billy squints at him suspiciously, then relaxes. "That's better. First off, a few questions. Are you a virgin?"

"No!" He's a little indignant-- after all, he is forty years old and not entirely without experience.

"Simmer down," Billy grins. "I should have said, are you a virgin to men-on-men stuff?"

"No." Fraser sincerely hopes that Billy will not ask for more details. He's certain that Billy would consider Fraser's experience (totaling less than half a dozen brief liaisons over the past twenty years) to be pathetically limited.

"Huh. You're full of surprises, Benton Fraser." Billy leans forward and licks Fraser's neck, between his collar and his ear. Fraser's hands flex on Billy's narrow hips. Billy laughs quietly. "My second question was going to be whether you're sure that you're attracted to guys, but I can see the answer is yes. Third question-- now, this is a serious one, so pay attention. If we do this, is it going to mess with whatever you've got going on with your partner Ray? Cause I can't handle fucking up anybody else's life for them." Under his breath, he adds, "I've fucked up enough people's lives for one year."

Will it? He doesn't think so. There are no promises between the two of them. No agreements to be broken. And Ray has already moved on-- not that there was ever anything to move on from. Ray has a new lover, and Fraser? Has nothing, except his honor and his duty. And Diefenbaker, he thinks, immediately feeling guilty for forgetting the wolf, even for a moment.

"No," Fraser says quietly. "No, it won't mess anything up." He's been alone for so long. He just wants a little human warmth, a little reassurance that he's still alive.

"Okay then." Billy casts a searching glance over the interior of the limousine. "We seem to be all alone for the moment," he mutters inexplicably. Pressing the intercom button, he tells the driver, "Just keep driving for a while."

Fraser tenses up again at this reminder of where they are. Billy rubs his hands over Fraser's shoulders, smiling. "Don't worry, Ben, he gets paid by the hour, and these drivers are used to weirder things than people having sex in the back of their limos."

"In the limo?"

His outraged sense of propriety crumbles under a shivery flood of lust as Billy leans forward, nips his earlobe, and whispers into his ear, "Yeah. In the limo."

Billy nibbles down the side of his neck, pushing aside the collar of his flannel shirt, and traces the hollow of his throat with the tip of his tongue, before swooping in on Fraser's mouth with a deep, scorching kiss. Fraser strangles back a moan, hyperaware that the driver is less than five feet away from them, separated from them by only a supposedly soundproof divider, and that just outside the heavily tinted windows are the busy streets of downtown Chicago. The driver must have turned onto North Avenue, he thinks fuzzily, before his concentration is utterly broken by the sensation of a hot, wet mouth fastening onto one nipple while the other is rolled between Billy's fingers. He hadn't even realized that Billy had gotten his shirt unbuttoned, too distracted by the kiss to notice.

Fraser strokes the back of Billy's neck, feeling the soft short hairs against his fingertips. "Mmmm," Billy growls, moving back up to his mouth for another kiss. "Very nice."

"Yes," Fraser gasps, as Billy's clever fingers make short work of the button and zipper of his jeans. His fingers dip inside and stroke him through the fabric of his boxers.

Billy slides off his thighs and kneels in front of him, his eyes intent and narrow with lust. "Lift," he instructs, and easily tugs Fraser's jeans and boxers down his legs. Moving forward between Fraser's legs, he runs his hands from Fraser's knees up to the soft skin of his belly. Fraser shivers, feeling more exposed than if he were completely naked.

Billy rubs the side of his face against the inside of Fraser's thigh, the harsh prickle of stubble almost too much sensation. Fraser gasps, slumping down in the seat so that he can widen his knees further. Billy grins up at him, again looking eerily like Ray.

Fraser chokes back a groan, watching Billy's dirty-blonde head come closer and closer to where his body aches for it, watching him tip his head to the side, glance up sidelong, and delicately run the tip of his long tongue up the side of Fraser's erect penis. Fraser shudders and gasps as Billy follows that up with a tongueswipe around the edge of his foreskin, almost completely drawn back from the head.

Billy pauses, frowning, as he concentrates on tearing open the condom packet that has materialized from somewhere while Fraser's attention was otherwise occupied. He squints at it, figures out which side is down, and rolls it down over Fraser's penis with a surprisingly pleasurable two-handed stroking maneuver. "Hang on," he advises Fraser with a wink, before leaning in and swallowing him to the base in one slow, steady move.

Fraser's head thunks back against the seat cushion, and he's unable to hold back a loud groan of pleasure. Billy's mouth is like an inferno, even through the latex, taking him in to the root again and again, bringing him to the edge faster than he would have thought possible, his legs shaking, his hands balled into fists and pushing against the seat cushion. It's too much-- too fast-- but he can't slow down-- and then Billy pushes a knuckle hard against his perineum and pleasure surprises a deep, helpless groan out of Fraser as he orgasms.

* * *

Billy sits back onto his heels, wiping the back of his hand against his mouth. Ben's just slumped against the seat, panting, looking completely wrecked. It's a good look for him, Billy thinks-- red-flushed cheeks, sweaty, disheveled hair, plaid shirt thrown open, jeans around his ankles, and, of course, that absolutely gorgeous cock, still mostly erect but beginning to soften. He wishes he could take a picture of this-- it'd fuel his jerk-off fantasies for fucking _years_ \-- but somehow he doesn't think Ben would appreciate that.

Sliding a hand down to his own cock, he rubs himself through his jeans, contemplating exactly what he wants now. Handjob? Blowjob? Either one sounds pretty fucking good to him.

"God, I wanna fuck you," a raspy voice that most definitely _isn't_ Benton Fraser's announces, and Billy almost jumps right out of his motherfucking _skin_. Joe is suddenly sitting right next to Ben, looking completely solid and real in the indirect glow of the limo's cabin lights.

"Fuck," Billy hisses under his breath, looking nervously at Ben, who's still sprawled against the seat, recovering.

"Touch yourself," Joe orders. His eyes are eerily bright, like gas flames, and he's staring at Billy like he wants to devour him.

Billy shakes his head, reluctant, but so turned on that he can't stop rubbing his hand against himself.

"C'mon, Billy, do it. You know you want to," Joe wheedles, his eyes narrowing and his voice dropping huskily.

Fuck, he shouldn't, this is completely fucked up and wrong-- but he's unzipping his jeans and sliding them down a little, freeing his cock. Moaning, Billy arches into his hand as he gives himself a long, hard stroke. Joe leans forward, his hands white-knuckled on his knees.

"Would you like me to..." Ben's voice intrudes suddenly, surprising Billy, who'd almost forgotten his presence.

"Uh, no, just-- uhhh-- you just watch me, all right? I want you to..."

Ben's puzzled agreement fades under Joe's husky growl. "Watched you giving him head-- you look so damn good that way, Billiam, on your knees like the little slut you are-- fuck, I loved how you used to take it-- cause you fucking loved it, Billy, you loved me fucking your throat--"

Billy whimpers, stroking himself harder, memories crowding into his head-- Joe's scent, the feel of him against the back of his throat, the bitter taste of precome-- he can practically feel Joe's hands in his hair, tugging a little too hard, holding him in place just where Joe wants him.

Joe is suddenly next to him, whispering in his ear, "You could never say no to me, no matter how hard you tried. Remember fucking against the wall in that alley outside the club? People walking by not ten feet away, anybody could've seen us-- and you trying so hard not to make any noise, Billy-boy, but I fucking made you _howl_ , you came so hard..."

"Oh-- fuck--" Billy groans, the images crowding through his mind-- he'd been so fucking drunk, and Joe just pushed him up against the wall and _took_ him-- sense-memory of the burn and ache of Joe pushing into him, the brick wall against the side of his face, Joe's hands bruisingly tight on his hips-- helpless to stop him, terrified of being caught, but so fucking turned on that even now the memory clenches him right under the balls, makes him thrust up _hard_ into his hand, biting his lip to try to stifle his moans.

"Look at me," Joe growls. Billy opens his eyes and sees Joe, kneeling in front of him, his eyes almost black with lust, looking so completely real that he halfway expects to be pushed to the floor with a bruising kiss. "Yeah, that's right-- come for me-- 'cause you're _mine_ , Billy, all mine, always have been and always will be--" and Billy's coming, crying out, scenes flashing through his mind like a slideshow-- Joe's hands clenched over his, holding his hands above his head-- struggling to breath under the weight of Joe's body sprawled on top of him-- the snarl on Joe's face when he's just about to come-- "Oh, fuck, Joe, _Joe_..."

The white noise in Billy's head slowly ebbs away, leaving him aware that he's collapsed onto his side on the limousine floor, panting and come-splattered. He opens his eyes, blinking sweat away. Joe's gone again. Ben's watching him, an odd look on his face-- mostly blank, but there's also curiosity-- and is that... hurt? _Oh hell._

"Who's Joe?" Ben finally asks, a bit too blandly.

"Joe is-- _was_ \-- fuck, it's a long story, Ben." He's so damned tired, and he'd love to just fall asleep right now, but Ben really does deserve some kind of explanation, seeing as Billy just basically had sex with a ghost right in front of him.

Trying to rub away the worst of the stickiness, Billy straightens out his clothing, collapsing onto the seat next to Ben, who's almost bizarrely clean and neat, as if he'd never been a sprawled, debauched mess ten minutes ago.

Staring down at his hands, Billy begins, "Joe was my best friend." _Best friend, worst enemy-- partner in crime, thorn in the side-- the sonofabitch I couldn't escape, the sonofabitch I... loved._ "And six months ago," he says, hearing the bitterness seep into his voice, "he decided it would be a really good idea to blow his motherfucking brains out on film."

"I'm sorry," Ben says quietly.

"Yeah." Billy laughs, short and harsh. "Everybody's sorry. Except for Joe."

"Is there anything that I can..."

Billy shrugs. "Can you turn back time? Nope? Well, then I guess there's nothing you can do."

There's a short silence.

"I'm sorry. Jesus, I can be a bitch sometimes. You didn't deserve that."

"It's all right."

"No, it isn't. You don't fucking deserve to have to deal with my shit." Billy rubs his hands over his face, just so goddamned tired.

They sit and stare out the car windows for a while, watching the street lights flash by dimly.

"Could you-- okay, there is one thing you could do. If you're not sick of my shit by now."

"I'd like to... help, if I can."

"Could you-- sleep with me? Just sleep?" Billy presses the heels of his hands against his eyes until he can see sparks on the insides of his eyelids. "I'm just so fucking sick of being alone."

"I'd like that," Ben says quietly.

"Yeah?" Billy asks, squinting at him.

Ben sighs and smiles a little, sadly. "You're not the only one who's sick of being alone."


End file.
